


o trespass, sweetly urged

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Series: fire & powder [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Relationships, Begging, Biting, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Face Slapping, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Lambert (The Witcher), First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Painplay, Podfic & Podficced Works, Polyamory, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Resolved Sexual Tension, Ruthlessly Cherry-Picked Canon, Sexual Tension, Slapping, Submissive Lambert (The Witcher), Swordfighting, Swordplay, Top Lambert (The Witcher), Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion, blowjob, mild scent kink, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23924011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: The leading edge of his sword nicks Lambert’s cheek, and the small trickle of blood may as well be a bonfire on a moonless night for how it holds his attention.Lambert teaches Jaskier how to use a sword.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Series: fire & powder [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698274
Comments: 190
Kudos: 1243
Collections: Ashes' Library, Polyamorous Relationships For the Win





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeah okay so the letho fic was supposed to be next but this happened instead so, yay! porn!!!
> 
> i just couldn't resist the inherent homoeroticism of swordfighting, sorry y'all (i'm not actually sorry)
> 
> this takes place while they're still at kaer morhen, so during/after the last fic (idk for sure, the timeline isn't really concrete, nor does it really matter that much)
> 
> also i know that jaskier is a(n alleged) human and lambert is a witcher with many years experience and there's no way jaskier could feasibly actually beat him in a swordfight. suspend your disbelief in the interest of porn pls.

“Tell me something, bard, do you actually want to learn how to use a sword, or do you just want to fuck me?”

Jaskier blinks down at the book in his lap. It’s almost mid-morning, weak golden light streaming through the high windows in the library. He’s been alone in the cavernous room for nearly two hours now, after an early breakfast shared with Vesemir. He hadn’t heard anyone else come in.

Lambert is leaning on a shelf nearby when he looks up. He looks unfairly good in this light, clad in the armor he usually wears to practice with his sword, eyes practically glowing.

“Yes,” Jaskier answers, figuring if the Witcher is going to be that blunt this early, he will be, too.

A smirk spreads across Lambert’s face. “In that case, there’s a wooden sword out in the courtyard with your name on it. Come on.”

He turns and strides out of the library without waiting for Jaskier’s answer. Jaskier rolls his eyes, marks his place in his book, and follows him.

* * *

He catches up with Lambert in the courtyard after detouring through the kitchen for a snack. The Witcher is standing in the center, next to the well-used dummy, tossing a wooden sword back and forth between his palms. He rolls his eyes when he sees Jaskier with food, but takes the handful of jerky he’s handed and eats it.

“Have you ever used a sword at all?” he asks.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Not really? Technically I was taught some fencing as a child, but only technically.”

Lambert raises an eyebrow in question. Jaskier sighs, a little over dramatic, and finishes his snack before explaining, “I received a very well-rounded education, and it was meant to include fencing. I, however, hated it, and did my best to avoid it at all costs and, if I couldn’t avoid it, utterly fail at it.”

That makes Lambert snort. “They must have managed to teach you something – or, actually, where were you schooled?”

“A temple,” Jaskier answers, intentionally vague. There really isn’t any harm in including details, at least not with his Witchers, but he’s gotten so used to leaving them out it’s practically second nature. If Lambert asks, he’ll elaborate, but it isn’t likely that he will.

Lambert pauses as if he’s considering something, then nods. “Alright. _Do_ you remember anything?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Sort of. I know to keep my feet planted, some width apart, to keep my balance. But I probably only remember that because I learned to dance around the same time as the cursed fencing lessons, if I’m honest. I might be able to hold the sword correctly.”

“We won’t know unless you try.” Lambert hands the sword over, and Jaskier takes it. He’s a little clumsy – the weight of it in his palm is unfamiliar – but he manages to balance it quickly enough.

“Not bad, but….” Lambert is looking at his hand, and he reaches out as if to correct, but stops just shy of actually touching.

Jaskier resists the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s fine,” he says.

Lambert’s touch is gentle, more directing his fingers than moving them, and Jaskier is almost transfixed by the sight and sensation both. Once his hand is where Lambert wants it, he moves up to Jaskier’s wrist and elbow, also adjusting their position, until suddenly Jaskier finds it’s much easier to hold the sword.

“Huh.” He tests it out a little, just lifting and dropping the sword by a few inches, and it really is much easier to hold the weapon.

“You were right about your feet,” Lambert murmurs. “Mostly. Here.”

He steps back and snatches up his own sword, leaned against the dummy. “Like this.” He demonstrates the best way to stand, and it’s similar to what Jaskier was thinking, but more – forward, he thinks is the best way to describe it. He shifts to mimic the stance.

Lambert looks him over for a moment, then comes closer again. He doesn’t hesitate before touching this time, and Jaskier feels an incredibly inappropriate thrill zing through him.

Then again, considering how this moment came to be, maybe it’s not so inappropriate.

Jaskier follows where Lambert’s guiding touches put him, until his stance is to the Witcher’s liking. He steps back again, and inspects for a moment.

Finally, he nods. “Okay, try to copy me.”

He grabs his own sword again. He raises it to about shoulder level, then sweeps it in a downward arc; it’s a simple movement, clearly slowed a great amount for Jaskier’s benefit. Lambert does it a few more times, then puts his sword back down. “Go on.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath and tries to mimic him. The sword wavers in his hand when he gets up all the way up, and he nearly drops it on the downward swing. To his surprise, Lambert doesn’t laugh; instead, he just smiles and steps closer again, this time circling so he’s at Jaskier’s back.

“Here,” he murmurs, close enough that Jaskier can feel the heat of his breath. He presses close, his chest to Jaskier’s back, and reaches out to align his arm with Jaskier’s. He’s not much taller than Jaskier, but he is much broader and longer in the limbs, and he’s able to grasp Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier’s pulse spikes. There’s no way Lambert doesn’t notice, but he seems content to ignore it for now. With his arm lined up along Jaskier’s and the sword held rather tightly between the two of them, he guides Jaskier through the movement. Once, and then again, and a third time.

“Think you’ve got it?”

It seems Jaskier’s words have momentarily abandoned him. He nods in the meantime, and Lambert steps back, circling forward again so he can watch as Jaskier tries the swing once more alone. He tries the swing again, with a little more success; it’s still clumsy, amateur compared to Lambert, but he doesn’t fumble the sword this time and the trembling is minor.

“Good,” Lambert encourages. “Again.”

So Jaskier does it again. And again, and again, until the trembling has stopped, and he can almost complete the swing without the tip wobbling in the air at the end. His arm is sore, and so is his wrist, but he can hardly care about them when Lambert is looking at him like _that._

“We’ll make a swordsman out of you yet,” the Witcher grins, and Jaskier thinks he’d deal with a thousand sore arms just to see that kind of smile on Lambert’s face all the time.

* * *

Despite the innuendo – and, frankly, the palpable tension between them – he and Lambert continue doing nothing more than sword practice.

It takes nearly two weeks for Jaskier to properly get a hold of just moving the sword by himself. However, once he’s got a better hold on how to move the weapon – and how to move along with it – Lambert starts teaching him more about combat, and about footwork. Jaskier picks it all up quickly; quick enough, in fact, that Lambert comments on it. And so does Vesemir, after coming out to watch them practice one day.

They’ve begun to spar. Lambert is still clearly going easy on him, but only just, and Jaskier is getting better and better at hitting him by the day. Vesemir looks genuinely impressed when Lambert calls the lesson off, and Jaskier is glad he’s already so red from the practice. Otherwise, he’d be almost glowing from the pride.

“You’ve picked the basics up faster than any of them ever did,” the elder Witcher says, and Jaskier feels like his grin might split his face. Vesemir turns to Lambert, still looking impressed, and adds, “You’re a hell of a teacher, boy.”

Jaskier doesn’t think he’ll _ever_ stop grinning, now, watching as Lambert’s expression cycle through slack-jawed shock, confusion, and then, like the sun dawning, sheepish pride.

* * *

The tangible tension between them stays, stalemate, until the day that Lambert hands him an actual sharpened sword and says, with no small amount of heat in his voice, “I’m willing to take orders from you if you can make me bleed.”

Jaskier’s never been one to back down from a challenge – _obviously_ – and this time is no different. They settle into their usual stances for sparring, but it’s markedly different this time.

For one, the tension isn’t just tangible now, it’s practically a wall between them; and, more than that, this isn’t meant to be easy practice. This is a test. Of Jaskier’s skill, yes, but also of Lambert’s teaching. And Jaskier is rather determined to pass.

The lingering offer of something much more than sword fighting is almost secondary. But not quite.

Lambert strikes first, a quick thrust forward that Jaskier easily dodges and blocks. He uses the momentum of the parry to move to the side, as well, so that Lambert can’t just tip his sword up and throw him off balance. He strikes with a sweep, but Lambert manages to spin and block it at the last second. The Witcher lets out a feral laugh and rushes forward, forcing Jaskier to swing to the side and drop to one knee to avoid the blow. It puts him at a disadvantage, and Lambert knows it; he doesn’t let up, instead attacking again, and again. All Jaskier can do for several minutes is block, until Lambert finally leaves him just enough space to get back onto his feet. Likely not intentional, but that hardly matters. The important part is that he’s back on his feet.

They dance around one another for what seems like an eternity, but is probably closer to just a handful of minutes. Jaskier gets close to hitting Lambert nearly half a dozen times; Lambert gets more and more vicious each time. Determined not to give Jaskier the victory on a sliver platter, even if the outcome serves him just as well. Jaskier, in counterpart, is just as determined that he wins, if nothing else so he can prove to Lambert that he can.

And, of course, that Lambert is, in fact, a wonderful teacher.

Ultimately, it’s not really Jaskier’s skill that gives him his opening. It’s dumb luck that Lambert forgets about a missing flagstone in the center of the courtyard, but one of the most important things Jaskier’s learned in the past few weeks is that no one wins a sword fight by playing fair. So when Lambert stumbles, just a little, in the middle of a parry, Jaskier takes advantage.

The leading edge of his sword nicks Lambert’s cheek, and the small trickle of blood may as well be a bonfire on a moonless night for how it holds his attention. Everything seems to screech to a halt, including Jaskier’s heart, until it suddenly picks up triple speed; his breath, though, remains caught in his chest to the point of aching.

He watches, feeling as if everything is in slow motion, as Lambert drops his sword. Jaskier drops his, too, on instinct. Lambert reaches up and touches his face, fingers coming away stained crimson, and the expression he’s wearing is indiscernible.

Jaskier’s forced to breathe again by his body, and the moment breaks.

A grin, wide and wicked, spreads across Lambert’s face. He spreads his arms out, a cocky gesture, and says, “Well?”

If he weren’t a Witcher, Jaskier would have knocked him to the ground with the force he collides into him with. As it is, though, Lambert just grunts and catches him, and then they’re kissing. It’s deep and messy and Jaskier’s pretty sure one of their lips is bleeding, judging from the tang of copper, but he hardly gives a fuck.

He gives even less of a fuck when Lambert makes a choked, broken noise into his mouth, and very clearly _surrenders._

Oh, that’s a rush.

It’s easy, after that, to shove the Witcher backward until his back collides with the wall at the edge of the courtyard. The kiss only breaks when Jaskier can’t ignore his need to breathe any longer. Lambert tips his head back against the wall at his back with a heartfelt groan, and Jaskier can’t just leave that be.

He ducks forward, trailing open-mouthed kisses from the corner of Lambert’s jaw to where his jerkin meets his throat. Even as hot as he feels right now, he knows it’s too fucking cold out here to take any clothes off, and what a godsdamned shame. Oh well. This suffices, for now.

Lambert outright _whines_ when Jaskier sinks his teeth into his neck, one hand flying up to grab at Jaskier’s hair while the other scrabbles at the wall for purchase. Jaskier laughs, something feral and almost unhinged, and licks over the bite to soothe. He wonders if it’ll leave a mark. With his Witcher healing, probably not, but frankly, that just makes Jaskier want to try harder. He shoves a thigh between Lambert’s and trails back up to his mouth.

Their second kiss is slightly less violent, but no less passionate for it. Jaskier tries to take note of everything that makes Lambert moan or shudder against him; nibbling his lip, flicking his tongue just behind his teeth. Rolling his hips knocks an almost desperate noise out of the Witcher, and Jaskier thinks that maybe a quick, clothed fuck won’t be enough.

As if on cue, from the direction of the castle, Vesemir shouts, “You have your own rooms for a reason, Lambert! Make use of yours!”

Jaskier pulls back from their kiss with a laugh, a little less feral this time. Lambert is panting, but grinning as well.

“Well?” he asks, again, and Jaskier jerks his leg up, just enough for the pressure to border on painful, meant to be a reprimand for the arrogance.

Lambert shocks him when his eyes roll a little and he moans weakly, hips jerking into the touch, and _oh._ Jaskier will have to keep that in mind, then.

Regrettably, Jaskier has to step back from him. Otherwise, this is going to go much further very quickly, and he already knows Vesemir’s opinion on _that_. He’d rather like to stay on the old man’s good side. “Come on,” he says, grasping Lambert’s wrist and tugging him forward.

Lambert grins and follows the pull.

* * *

Jaskier pushes Lambert back up against the wall of his bedroom almost the exact second the door slams shut behind them. The Witcher all but melts into the contact, submission in every line of his body, and Jaskier feels like he’s going out of his damned mind.

“Clothes,” he barks, yanking at the leather wrapped around Lambert’s chest until it creaks. “Fuck, need you naked _yesterday._ ”

Lambert laughs at that, but it’s weak and he makes a mournful noise when Jaskier steps away. He starts fumbling with the buttons and laces of his clothes, though. Jaskier attacks his own with almost no patience, heedless of the sound of complaining seams.

“Please tell me you have oil.” Jaskier says it just as he’s finally rid himself of his top layers and had started working on the bottom. Lambert, for his part, has just managed to work through the protective leather and is getting to the actual clothes beneath.

“Yeah,” he mutters, looking a little sheepish. He jerks his head in the direction of a little desk to the side of his bed. “Top drawer.”

Jaskier grins at him, more of a leer, and finishes scrambling out of his clothes before he goes to find it. It’s a small bottle, and nearly full; he wonders what Lambert has it for, if it’s not being used regularly, but decides it’s not important. Not right now, at least. Maybe later, when he’s not looking at Lambert as he strips efficiently out of his clothes.

He knows the Witcher is attractive. It’s rather hard to miss, actually, but this is different. Seeing all of him, bared piece by piece, is _doing_ things to Jaskier. His mouth waters when Lambert finally kicks off his boots and pulls at his breeches.

Seeing Lambert’s cock, his entire plan for the night is totally derailed. He wants that inside him, preferably about three minutes ago, but as soon as physically possible _now_ will do just fine.

He’s back across the room in three strides. Lambert lets him press him back into the wall despite his nakedness and accepts the searching kiss Jaskier plants on him just as easily. Time seems to suspend and stretch, for a bit, as Jaskier lets himself get lost in the kiss and the feeling of so much naked, scarred skin caressing his.

Until Lambert’s hips twitch, grinding them together, and he’s very abruptly reminded of the matter at hand. He breaks away from Lambert’s mouth just to breathe hotly into his ear, “I want to ride you.”

The Witcher makes a low, broken noise, and his grip on Jaskier’s waist tightens to the point of bruising. Jaskier just presses into the grip and drags his tongue along the shell of Lambert’s ear, reveling in the way he shivers.

“Bed,” he growls out, and practically throws Jaskier in that direction. He goes easily, tipping onto his back at the foot of it, holding out the vial of oil still clutched in his hand. Lambert takes it and, after a long moment of blatant, appreciative staring, opens it up and coats his fingers.

Jaskier spreads his legs, as much a show as it is invitation, and reaches up to pull the Witcher down when he bends close enough. The first touch to his hole is almost a shock, a little cold and almost light enough to tickle, but that doesn’t last long. Lambert just massages for a moment, eyes molten gold and burning into Jaskier’s; Jaskier holds his gaze until the first finger starts to slip inside, and then he can’t, tossing his head back and whimpering at the feeling.

Lambert pauses once his finger is sunk to the knuckle, and Jaskier whines impatiently, thumping at the Witcher’s shoulder with his heel. Lambert snorts, but starts to move, slowly at first and then quicker the louder Jaskier gets.

It’s barely been a full two minutes before Jaskier is begging. “More, please, _fuck_ ,” he gasps, hips jerking each time Lambert’s finger sinks all the way inside him. The Witcher obliges, and a second finger makes Jaskier’s back arch sharply.

“Fuck, you look so godsdamned good,” Lambert mutters, ducking his head to lap at the sweat gathered in the hollow of Jaskier’s throat. “Taste even better, fuck.”

Jaskier laughs, breathless, and rocks up, onto the Witcher’s fingers. His mouths sloppily at his earlobe and groans when it makes Lambert’s next thrust with his fingers a little sharper. “You too,” he mumbles, half out of it, “gods, I just want to _wreck_ you.”

If Lambert weren’t mere inches from his ear, Jaskier wouldn’t have heard it. But Lambert is, so Jaskier does; small, nearly just breath, Lambert whispers, “ _Please_ ,” and Jaskier very nearly comes right then.

He reaches down to squeeze at the base of his cock with a groan. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses. “More, c’mon, more.”

It’s maybe a little too soon, but even as the third finger stings as it pushes inside him, Jaskier thinks he just wants to get on with it. He glances down between them, where Lambert is arched over him, and grunts when he sees the trail of precome dripping from his cock to the bed.

He’ll definitely be shoving that down his throat at the next opportunity. For now, though, he has other things to focus on. Lambert’s fingers spread out inside him and he moans, pulling at Lambert’s hair just for something to do with his hands. It feels so fucking _good_ , Lambert’s fingers thick and calloused and very clearly experienced. And it only gets better when the Witcher curls his fingers, grunting in concentration, and hits his prostate dead on.

Jaskier makes a cracked, high-pitched sound almost like a scream and sees white, for a split second. When his vision swims back into focus, Lambert is leaning over him, concern and self-satisfaction warring for dominance in his expression. Jaskier uses the grip he still has on the Witcher’s hair to yank him down into a messy kiss.

When the kiss breaks, Jaskier finds himself rather suddenly out of patience. “Ready, I’m ready, c’mon,” he mutters, pulling his leg back and pushing at Lambert with his foot. The Witcher snorts and drives into him a handful more times before he allows himself to be moved. Jaskier bites back a bereft whimper when he takes his fingers with him.

“Where do you want me?” Lambert asks quietly. Jaskier forces himself to sit up, then to stand, despite his wobbly legs, and waves Lambert onto the bed. He climbs back in alongside him, waiting til the Witcher is settled to straddle his waist.

Lambert’s hands come up to rest on his thighs immediately, one of them still gripping the bottle of oil. Jaskier pries it from his fingers and pours a generous amount into his palm before recorking it and tossing it gently to the desk. Showing off his flexibility, he reaches back to coat Lambert’s cock. The Witcher hisses, eyes squeezing shut as his whole body arches toward Jaskier; when his eyes open again, there’s almost no gold left, just a black expanse of pupil ringed by yellow.

Jaskier keeps a hold of the Witcher’s cock, but shifts and bends a little, so they’re lined up properly. Before he moves, though – even though he desperately wants it, hole fluttering weakly against the head of Lambert’s prick – he leans a little forward and says, as commanding and seductive as he can, “I want you to ask for it.”

He’s prepared for Lambert to refuse, to deflect, ready to tease and cajole until he gets what he wants. He’s also prepared for a straightforward, forceful request that he can immediately fulfill. He’s absolutely not prepared for the wavering, “ _Please_ , Jaskier, I want you so badly,” that falls from Lambert’s lips.

“Sweet Melitele,” he gasps, almost involuntary, and easily shifts backward to take the head inside. There’s hardly any pain, just some residual stretch, and Jaskier groans, long and low. Lambert’s hands on his thighs are trembling, his entire body held taut.

Jaskier rests his hands on the Witcher’s chest, fingers catching in the downy hair there, and slowly works himself down. He can’t remember ever being this _full_ , and it’s like a godsdamned revelation; even more so when he’s fully seated, panting, and Lambert growls, a sound Jaskier can feel in his palms and his gut.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses. His hips start to roll almost without his input. Lambert’s hands grip at his thighs and his waist, definitely hard enough to bruise.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” he whines, and Jaskier thinks he’d be perfectly content if Lambert never used his name outside of fucking, as long as he always sounds like _that_ when he says it.

“Lambert,” he gasps back, and with a concentrated effort, lifts himself nearly off of Lambert’s cock, just to nearly slam back down. The flare of pleasure is so bright he’s helpless to do anything but immediately do it again, this time with Lambert helping him rise.

They settle into a rhythm, not quite fast but hardly sedate, and Jaskier’s reduced to animal sounds embarrassingly quickly. Lambert’s not much better off; he’s growling almost continuously, teeth and his throat bared as he arches back and matches Jaskier thrust for thrust. He doesn’t know how long it goes on before he falls into the white light of orgasm, but it’s probably not as long as he’d like.

When he comes to, vision a little hazy still as aftershocks rock his system, Lambert is still hard. He’s holding still, but Jaskier can tell his control is paper-thin; he laughs, slurred and lazy, and murmurs, “Keep going, Witcher.”

Lambert flips them over in a movement too quick for Jaskier to parse in his pleasure-drunk state. He laughs again, throwing his arms around Lambert’s shoulders. It morphs quickly into a moan, then a whine as Lambert’s cock glances against his prostate.

He’s sensitive, almost enough to hurt, but it just makes it better. “Fuck, yes, _please_ ,” he encourages, still a little garbled, and opens his mouth for the desperate kiss Lambert answers with. His thrusts get a little faster, a little deeper, and Jaskier _squeaks_ when his cock starts to twitch back to life.

It’s too soon – by about half an hour, fuck – but Lambert doesn’t stop, and neither does the renewed blood flow to Jaskier’s prick. The pleasure of it is tinged with pain, sharp like the noon sun reflecting off the snow. Jaskier whimpers and whines but doesn’t ask Lambert to stop, because despite the overstimulation, he doesn’t _want_ him to.

“Fuck,” Lambert groans, and drops closer to Jaskier, pressing his face into Jaskier’s throat. “I’m close, _gods_.”

Jaskier giggles, a bit unhinged, and arches closer, whimpering when the shift makes Lambert’s thrusts nail his prostate every time. His limbs are trembling, and he’s hard again, still wet from his first orgasm. “Want it,” he rumbles, “want you to fill me up, Lambert. I’ll smell like you, for _days_ , won’t I?”

It’s a small miracle that Jaskier is coherent enough for dirty talk, but it’s good that he is. Lambert makes a beautiful, shattered noise and comes, pressed as deep inside Jaskier as he can get at this angle. Jaskier can feel the way his cock flexes as he rides it out, and it makes his own cock throb something fierce.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, gentling Lambert down from the high. The Witcher whimpers a little where his face is still pressed tight against Jaskier’s throat, and Jaskier lets him stay there. He pets through his sweaty hair and hums a little.

Finally, after nearly a minute, Lambert pulls back. He glances between them, eyes hazy, and growls again, a short, almost subverbal noise. “Do you want to come again?” he asks, and Jaskier jolts.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, begging in just that one word, and to his surprise – and _delight_ – Lambert slides down the bed and takes him into his mouth. “Oh, fuck, Lambert – ”

The Witcher hums, and slowly but surely, engulfs Jaskier’s entire dick in his throat. The sensation is sharp and wonderful and there’s black spots dancing in Jaskier’s vision as he tries to keep his eyes open, to _watch._ Lambert’s eyes are closed, though, apparently savoring this, and that, overall, is what tips Jaskier over the edge.

Not that Lambert’s clever tongue and pointed swallowing don’t do a hell of a lot of work themselves, though.

“I – ” is all he can get out of a warning, and a weak tug at the Witcher’s hair, but Lambert just growls again, the vibration something godsdamned earth-shattering, and Jaskier is _gone._ The world disappears in favor of white-out pleasure and colorful stars behind his eyelids for an indeterminate amount of time.

By the time he’s surfaced, Lambert has licked him completely clean and is laid with his head in the crease of Jaskier’s thigh. He’s breathing slow and deep, like he’s asleep, but Jaskier can tell he’s not; there’s a tension in his shoulders. Jaskier just can’t let that stand.

“C’mere,” he slurs. “Kiss me.” Fuck, he’s still quivering, fingers and hands weak and trembly when they grasp at Lambert’s hair and neck. The Witcher comes easily, though, no need for Jaskier to locate his strength.

The kiss is slow and soft but deep, and Jaskier grunts at the realization that he can taste himself. It’s not specifically pleasant, but it is _scorchingly_ hot, so he licks deeper into Lambert’s mouth and wraps a restraining leg around his hip.

Lambert grins, a small thing, right against Jaskier’s mouth, and lets himself be kept.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier investigates that interesting reaction Lambert had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lambert has a pain kink and this is filth. that is all.
> 
> i'm in the woods! i nipped down to the bottom of the hill so i could use my phone hotspot and post this and some other things - leave me comments to find when i go back to civilization!!!

Jaskier does his best to broach the subject gently. He _does_.

The problem is that Lambert just doesn’t _do_ subtlety.

“Lambert, do you like pain during sex?”

He feels awkward saying it like that, but so far his attempts to not just say it outright like it’s some kind accusation have flown straight over the youngest Witcher’s head. Jaskier cringes when Lambert’s fork scrapes across his plate with a screech.

They’re alone – obviously, Jaskier wasn’t going to have this conversation with everyone else around. _Gods_ no. Late breakfast for the both of them, the others having been and gone hours ago.

“What?” Lambert asks, and Jaskier can tell he’s nervous.

Not an altogether common sight on Lambert, if he’s honest. Anxious, sure, but _nervous._

“I – ” Jaskier stops and pushes a hand through his hair. “I’ve noticed,” he tries again, “you seem to like it when I’m rough.” _More than just rough,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say, because he’s got to get a proper answer out of the Witcher before they can get to _that_.

“And what if I do?” Lambert mutters defensively. His shoulders are hunched around his ears. “I already know I’m a freak, bard, you don’t need to say it.”

Jaskier looks up from where he was studying Lambert’s hands. “Whoa,” he says, mind reeling. “I don’t – _Lambert._ That is not what I was saying, and you damned well know it.”

“Should be,” Lambert huffs. “I know it’s fucking weird.”

“What?” If he’s being completely honest, Jaskier is completely lost. “What is fucking weird?”

“That I – that I want you to hurt me,” Lambert whispers it, the softest Jaskier has ever heard his voice, and _oh_.

Jaskier doesn’t bother scooting his chair closer to Lambert’s, just bypasses it entirely and sits in the Witcher’s lap. “Lambert,” he says gently. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Of course there is.” Lambert won’t look at him, even though Jaskier is cupping his face in his palms. “It makes no _sense_. My whole life is pain, even here sometimes, and I just want _more_?”

Jaskier takes a deep breath. “I can tell you why,” he says. He’s no expert or anything, but he’s spent his fair share of time in bathhouses and brothels and befriended all kinds of people from all kinds of walks of life. He knows a fair bit about the more taboo aspects of sex.

“Can you?” Lambert sounds dismissive and hopeful all at once. Jaskier strokes his thumbs over the rise of his cheeks, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. Lambert still won’t look at him, but he’s not moving away from the touch. It’s a good sign.

“Yes,” Jaskier murmurs. “Let’s go up to your room, hm?”

Lambert nods, but when Jaskier goes to get off of his lap, he stops him.

“Lambert?”

“I just – ” Lambert coughs, a poor disguise for the way his words seem to get caught in his throat. Jaskier shifts one hand up, over Lambert’s cheek and temple and into his hair. Petting him – something else Jaskier has noticed he likes but will likely never admit, not unless Jaskier makes him. This one is less imperative, though; Jaskier doesn’t need to have a fleshed-out discussion about playing with Lambert’s hair.

Hitting him, though, that needs to be talked about.

“Carry me,” Jaskier says, as if it’s an order.

Lambert breathes out a sigh of relief and does just that.

* * *

The Witcher doesn’t let go of him once they’ve reached the bedroom. Instead, he sits up against the headboard of his bed with Jaskier still in his arms.

Jaskier supposes it might be easier for him to have this conversation this way and shifts to straddle his lap. “First off,” he starts, tone firm, “you’re not a freak, and it’s not weird.”

Lambert huffs, but doesn’t argue. Jaskier rewards him with a kiss to his temple and petting through his hair again.

“It’s about control,” Jaskier explains. “On the Path, and even here, you don’t get to control the pain you experience, right? It just happens to you. Monsters and men alike, wounds physical and emotional – you’re just saddled with whatever you get, no choice in it at all.” He chooses his words carefully, here; choice is a very important thing with Lambert, because he’s never gotten any in his life. Jaskier makes sure to emphasize the choices he does have, when he can.

“I don’t,” Lambert agrees. “But why do I want – with you,” he takes a ragged breath, “gods, you…. When you slapped me, the other night, I know it was mostly instinct because I scared you, but….”

Jaskier hums, an encouraging sound. Lambert takes another shuddering breath and forges on. “But I _liked_ it.”

“I noticed,” Jaskier informs him. And he had; it had been a minute reaction, sandwiched between the shock of the hit and the apology for frightening him that followed, but there all the same. His eyes had gone wide and a little soft, and he’s staggered the slightest bit _toward_ the hand that hit him.

“ _Why_?”

“Because,” Jaskier pushes both of his hands through Lambert’s hair now, a repetitive, soothing motion. “With me, you have the control.”

“What?”

Jaskier thinks for a moment. Lambert is a hand-on learner. He tightens his grip on Lambert’s hair, too close to the hairline, and the Witcher hisses.

“Stop that!”

Jaskier does.

It takes a second, but Jaskier watches as it clicks in Lambert’s head. “Oh,” he says.

Jaskier nods. “There’s something to be said for just liking something because you like it,” he says, “but that, control, is at least part of it for you. If I hurt you, you decide when it begins and ends. You decide what the hurt is.”

“What if I don’t know what I want?”

Jaskier smiles and leans forward to kiss him, a small, soft thing. “That’s alright,” he says. “We can figure that out together.”

* * *

They try the slapping first. It wouldn’t have been Jaskier’s first choice, but he wasn’t the one making the decisions here. At least, not really.

It starts simple enough. Lambert pulls back from a particularly heated kiss one day and murmurs, “I want you to slap me again,” into the skin of Jaskier’s throat.

“Okay,” Jaskier agrees. He uses a gentle grip on Lambert’s hair to pull his head back, setting his opposite hand against the Witcher’s cheek. For a moment, he just caresses, soft little back and forth movements, before he taps with his fingers. Lambert swallows and nods, understanding the nonverbal question.

It’s softer than the last time. The last time was unintentional, firstly, and then Jaskier was intending to cause actual harm for the fright. This is different.

The snap of his palm against Lambert’s cheek seems overloud in the silence between them, echoing off of the high stone ceilings above. Lambert sucks in a breath at the impact and his eyes flutter. Jaskier rubs his hand against the light, nearly invisible mark his palm left.

“Good?” he asks, and Lambert makes a broken noise.

“Yes,” he mumbles, finally. “Again? Harder.”

“Of course.” Jaskier does as he’s been asked, and is treated to the lovely sight of Lambert’s face going slack and his eyes rolling. “Better?”

“ _Yes_.” Lambert’s pupils are blown wide when he opens his eyes again. Jaskier licks his lips, suddenly all kinds of curious about the noises he could make Lambert make. He wonders if Lambert would like to be hit other places, what other kinds of pain he would enjoy; he already knows the Witcher likes the red nail marks Jaskier leaves on his back and shoulders sometimes.

Jaskier shifts and trades hands; the one that was on Lambert’s cheek moves to his hair, and vice versa. “More?” he asks, and Lambert makes an eager, greedy noise and tips his head just so. It gives Jaskier the perfect angle to slap him again, this time just a bit harder than the other two.

He can feel the way Lambert’s knees start to wobble. It’s a hell of a headrush. The fact that the Witcher submits to him so easily always is.

“Gods,” he mutters, “you look so _good_ like this.”

“I want – _fuck_ , I want….”

“Tell me,” Jaskier demands, and Lambert groans.

“I want it,” he says. “I want you to hit me, more, and I want – I want you to be inside me while you do.”

Jaskier has no choice but to yank him into a vicious kiss at that. “ _Absolutely_ ,” he agrees. “On the bed, go.”

Lambert stumbles a little when Jaskier shoves him back but goes. Jaskier strips his clothes quickly and grabs the oil before he goes, too. It’s easy to follow the Witcher onto the bed, to straddle his thighs and press him down, until Lambert huffs and surrenders. The kiss that follows is filthy and messy, Lambert’s want bleeding through in the clumsy press of his tongue. Jaskier taps his fingers against the spots he’s already slapped and hums, pleased, when Lambert whines and presses up into the touch.

“ _Please_ ,” he whispers into Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier leaves him with a nip to his lip and trails wet kisses from his chin to his stomach. Lambert lifts his knees without prompting, and Jaskier rewards him for it by ducking down and sucking his balls into his mouth.

Lambert groans and shudders so hard his calves jerk against Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier grins and keeps laving his tongue over the thin skin while he wets his fingers. He moves his mouth along the crease of Lambert’s thigh as the first finger sinks in, licking along a particularly responsive spot he’s discovered before.

“Fuck,” Lambert hisses. “I want – bite me. There, please.”

Jaskier does as he’s told immediately. It’s not the hardest he’s ever bitten down on someone, not even the hardest he’s bitten Lambert specifically, but it’s a sensitive area. The Witcher’s hips flex up, toward the bite and further onto Jaskier’s finger, and he whines, low and hungry. Jaskier licks over the light indents of his teeth and presses forward with a second finger, gratified when Lambert groans and spreads his legs a little wider.

“C’mon,” Lambert begs, “more, more. I can take it.”

Jaskier chuckles and licks from base to head of his cock. “I know,” he says. “But you look so good squirming on my fingers, Lambert.”

“ _Jaskier_.” It sounds as if his name has been punched out of Lambert’s chest, and Jaskier chuckles again, sucking the head of the Witcher’s cock into his mouth as he spreads his fingers apart in the tight clutch of his body. Lambert shivers and grabs at Jaskier’s hair, just tight enough to tingle along his scalp. He moans around the head of Lambert’s cock, only partially for show, and moves his fingers faster.

“Fuck, Jaskier, _please,_ ” Lambert cries out, and Jaskier lets go of his cock with an obscene noise.

“You’re right, though,” he says, pressing a third finger in. “You’ll look much better squirming on my cock.”

Lambert makes an incoherent sound and his cock flexes hard, jerking wildly between them.

“You can come if you’d like,” Jaskier says, kneeling up a little so he can grasp the Witcher’s cock in his other palm.

“ _Please_ ,” Lambert hisses, “ _fuck_ me, Jaskier. Want to come on your cock.”

Jaskier grunts, taken off guard by the blatant plea, and leans forward to take Lambert’s mouth again, tongue-fucking him in the same rhythm he’s finger-fucking him. Lambert’s hands come up to his shoulders, yanking him down until they’re pressed together from their mouths to their hips. Jaskier grinds his hips forward, ignoring the bad angle on his arms, and revels in the moan Lambert pours into his mouth.

“Gods,” Jaskier hisses when he pulls back, spreading his fingers apart just to watch Lambert’s head drop back. “Always look so godsdamned good, Lambert.”

“ _Please._ ”

He’s good at holding out against begging when it serves him, he is. But it’s hard to resist that tone of desperate plea in Lambert’s voice, and really, he sees no reason he has to resist it. It takes a moment to find the oil again, and another to slick his cock, but Lambert seems content to wait for him, panting and whimpering against Jaskier’s throat.

The first push is as mind-bendingly good as it always is. Jaskier drops his head to Lambert’s shoulder, mouthing at the bone, and forces himself to wait it out, until Lambert thumps a heel against his ass and hisses, “ _Move._ ”

“Of course.” Jaskier props himself up, pushing Lambert’s thigh back just a little more, and does just that. He doesn’t bother starting slowly; Lambert doesn’t need it, and more, Jaskier knows he doesn’t want it. Once he’s settled into a rhythm, he moves his hand to rest on Lambert’s cheek. “Still want it?”

“ _Yes_.” Lambert’s eyes are hazy, a sort of absent look Jaskier’s only ever seen Eskel slip into. He strokes over Lambert’s cheek for a moment before shifting, moving onto his knees so he can use his other hand to grasp Lambert’s cock. He sets a rhythm with his hand counterpoint to his hips and taps his fingertips against the rise of Lambert’s cheekbone just to watch the way he tilts his head. Baring his cheek and throat all at once.

It’s not the hardest slap Jaskier has ever delivered, but it’s up there. Lambert cries out, definitely pained, but when Jaskier rubs at the sting, he practically melts everywhere except his legs. Those wrap tighter around Jaskier, pull him in closer with strength he has no chance of breaking.

Not that he has any interest in breaking that hold, of course.

Lambert’s cock is weeping in his hand, no extra slick needed at all to make his fist glide. “Wish I could leave a proper mark without breaking my hand,” Jaskier murmurs, and Lambert jolts, clenching down so hard he ruins Jaskier’s rhythm.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier hisses. He squeezes the head of Lambert’s cock, a little harder than he would anyone else, and the Witcher whimpers, hips jerking into the contact.

“Again,” Lambert pleads. Jaskier isn’t about to start denying him now.

He slaps him twice more before Lambert comes with a scream, back arching sharply. It takes every ounce of balance Jaskier has to hold on to him, and even more to stave off his own orgasm as Lambert clenches around his cock like a vice.

“ _Lambert,_ ” he hisses, leaning forward to kiss along the almost-red marks his palm has left. “So beautiful, darling, look at you.”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Lambert whimpers back. His legs tighten around Jaskier’s waist again, heels digging into his thighs, and he rocks his hips upward. “Want to feel you come.”

Jaskier doesn’t stand a chance against that. His orgasm barrels into him and his vision goes sparkling white for an indeterminate amount of time, until the sensitivity wins over the pleasure and he’s forced to pull back. Lambert whines at the loss, but Jaskier doesn’t go very far. Instead, he collapses to the side and opens his arms for Lambert to roll into, tangling their legs together.

Lambert’s nose ends up pressed to his throat. “You smell like all of us,” he murmurs.

“Best perfume in the world,” Jaskier mumbles back, dragging a lazy hand through Lambert’s hair, heedless of the sweat matting it down. “How was that, love?”

Lambert presses his face a little harder into Jaskier’s neck and makes a low, wanting sound. It’s answer enough. Jaskier grins against his temple and lets himself fade into sleep.

* * *

He finds a few days later that there are plenty of other places Lambert likes to be hit, and all of them produce the loveliest sounds out of the youngest Witcher. They lose more than a few days exploring those avenues alone.

Jaskier can’t say he regrets a single second of it. Not when Lambert looks at him, eyes hazy and filled with tears, and says, “ _Thank you_ ,” in the sweetest tone Jaskier’s ever heard.

**Author's Note:**

> w o o f i hope this wasn't terrible or ooc
> 
> comments literally make me keep doing this shit, so if you like it, let me know!!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [hsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hsu/pseuds/hsu) Log in to view. 




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